


Agenothree

by holdouttrout



Series: SG-1 Dragonriders AU [1]
Category: Dragonriders of Pern - Anne McCaffrey, Stargate SG-1
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-02-01
Updated: 2007-02-01
Packaged: 2017-11-15 20:46:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/531522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holdouttrout/pseuds/holdouttrout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam was seventeen when her father decided to foster her to the Craft Hold. This is the prequel to First Flight, which was originally written to stand alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Agenothree

Sam was seventeen when her father decided to foster her to the Craft Hold. It was unusual for weyrfolk to leave the weyrs; they often felt out of place in ordinary life, especially if, like Sam, they were sensitive to the dragons’ moods. Holders and those who lived in the halls sometimes migrated to the weyrs; having heard stories of the dragons their whole life, it was something they found fascinating and exotic.   
  
Sam didn’t want to go. She was old enough to candidate, and she was furious at J’cob’s insistence she leave the weyr.   
  
“What do you mean, I’m being fostered? And to the Craft Hold? You can’t do this! I’ve lived here my entire life. I’ve never known anything else!”  
  
J’cob set his mouth in a firm line. “I’ve already taken too much indulgence with you. I should have fostered you in the weyr when you were born. Your mother was right; you’ve just become stubborn. Is it so bad to want a different life for you?”  
  
And so, in spite of Sam’s pleading, logical arguments and sullen disobedience, she was loaded onto Solth’s back, in front of one of J’cob’s wingman, J’ack, and taken to the Crafter’s Hold.  
  
To her surprise, she loved it. She was to be given special instruction for the first year so she might be able to catch up with the other apprentices, and within a week her mechanics instructor, Martou, in a discussion of lost science, mentioned the problem of agenothree.   
  
Her interest was piqued by the description of great canisters the queens would carry to catch the clumps of Thread the higher flights missed.  
  
“You mean the queens used to fly against Thread?”  
  
Martou, who was used to a silent, sullen Sam, started at the question. He nodded automatically. “Yes, but the formula for the chemical and the ability to create the throwing mechanism has been lost.”  
  
Sam filed the knowledge away and pondered it in her spare moments. There weren’t many; she was set all manner of chores and lessons, and they didn’t allow her any time to relax or miss the weyr.  
  
She was set to cleaning out the library one day, and was in the middle of a huge pile of old hides—most unreadable, and others barely salvageable—when the door opened and a waft of air blew the unmistakable scent of dragon her way.  
  
“Sam?” a hesitant voice called.  
  
She lifted her head out of her stack, peered around the corner of the shelf. “D’nel?”  
  
A flash of a grin, a self-conscious sweep of close-cropped hair.  
  
D’nel, who had Impressed only the year before, picked his way through the mess of stacks of old hide toward Sam.  
  
“They finally let me out on my own. I’ve been assigned as a messenger—I’m pretty hopeless at everything else.”  
  
Sam grinned, and D’nel’s eyes flicked to her hair. She brushed at it, and a cloud of dust rose around her head. She rolled her eyes.  
  
“In my ‘spare time’ they have me cataloging, which is completely uninteresting, dusty, and tedious.”  
  
D’nel gave her a quizzical look.  
  
Sam said, “I’m fine, D’nel. I was…upset for a while, but this—well, the other stuff, the stuff I’m learning—it’s fascinating. There’s a lot of knowledge just in this room that is so old, so disused that it’s been forgotten. There’s even some old texts about the dragons, and let me tell you, there must have been some really weird ideas about them, because I’ve even found a couple of texts that mention time travel.”  
  
D’nel laughed. “That’s impossible!”  
  
“That’s what Leyr seems to think, too.” At D’nel’s inquiring look, she said, “He’s…really old, and is supposedly the greatest mathematician to have lived in hundreds of Turns.” She smiled, remembering. “He fumed and paced when I brought it up, and eventually concluded that it had to be nonsense. I’m not sure he believes it, though. He’s said a couple of times that every time he’s taken it upon himself to argue with a problem or solution in the old texts, he’s eventually proven himself wrong and them right.”  
  
They were silent, contemplating that for a moment. D’nel picked up the nearest hide and scanned it. “Huh. This is…strange.”  
  
Sam looked over his shoulder. “Oh, that’s a diagram for how to create a special type of hide that lasts much longer than this kind. That stack is for everything I know has been copied and doesn’t need to be kept any longer.”  
  
D’nel gave the hide a second look. “How come they didn’t use the process on this hide?”  
  
Sam grinned wryly. “I think they did. Most of the hides in these stacks are hundreds of Turns old.”  
  
D’nel raised his eyebrows. “That’s…old.”  
  
“Yes. There’s some really odd stuff here, too. Some of the crafters don’t even know what craft some of this information belongs to.”  
  
D’nel looked impressed, and said, “Here, let me help you for a while. I don’t have to be back until later tonight; I think your dad feels kind of guilty and wants you to have some company.”  
  
Sam ignored the stab of pain D’nel’s words caused, and she explained to D’nel how the sorting process worked, eventually making him leave after night fell. Neither had realized how late it had gotten, and both had found a satisfaction in the work neither had known was possible.  
  
From then on, D’nel made it a point to visit Sam whenever possible, and Sam would catch him up on the latest thing she had learned. They spent a lot of time going through old manuscripts; there was quite the pile of them, and the Master Crafters were happy to let them sort through the dusty stacks, especially since one or two times Sam and D’nel came back with workable solutions to minor problems or interesting concepts that might prove fruitful in the future.  
  
Gradually, as D’nel’s obligations with the Harper Hall took more and more of his time, Sam spent more time on her own in the library, pouring over cracked and faded hides. D’nel had already come and gone, and Sam was just clearing the remaining hides off her work table when one caught her eye. It was an equation or a formula; Sam ran it through in her head, and realized that she’d seen some of the symbols before. The hide, although old, was surprisingly intact; most of the others in the stack were cracked and illegible, but Sam could make out almost every symbol on the hide. At the top was one word that looked like it was written later: agenothree.  
  
She decided not to move it, and instead copied it down as best as she could. She then grabbed a flat board and carefully slid the hide onto it, wincing a little as she cracked the surface a bit more. She then placed another board on top, and carried the whole thing, along with her copy, to Master Leyr.  
  
She was tentative at first, and the Master almost dismissed her, angry at being interrupted.  
  
She insisted enough that he put down his own work. “Fine! If it will stop you pestering me…”  
  
He peered at her copy. “Your penmanship's improved, at least,” he said. As he looked it over, his eyes widened. “You’re sure you copied it exactly?”  
  
“I have the original, as long as it wasn’t damaged too much by moving it,” she replied. He compared the two silently. “It’s a true copy,” he admitted grudgingly. “As for the rest…we’ll have to ask Master Martou, but I think it’s worth the extra time. It’s probably nothing, but still…”  
  
Master Martou recognized it immediately. “I’ve seen this before, but never so much of it. There are far fewer variables missing—it’s an excellent copy, I see, from the ghosts of old letters.”  
  
Sam felt a stab of pride.  
  
“It’s not quite enough by itself, of course, but…we might be able to guess the rest of it.”  
  
Sam asked, quickly, “Can I help?”  
  
Martou looked at her shrewdly. “Still have visions of wings, do we?” Sam blushed. “Never mind that. I’ll need an assistant for this, and since you discovered what could possibly be the key…”  
  
It was settled, and within a week they’d started experimenting. Sam’s head was crammed with math most Pernese never suspected existed, and D’nel regularly shook his head in befuddlement at her attempts to explain exactly what they were doing. It was a year before they had anything to show them they were heading in the right direction, and another before they had a way to really test anything.  
  
They got it to work (almost blew up their workspace spectacularly, more like) the day D’nel was scheduled to come by. When Sam heard the sound of wings, she practically flew out the door.  
  
“D’nel! D’nel! We did it, we just had to adjust the amount of the—“  
  
She stopped abruptly, having caught sight of scales that were not blue, but bronze.   
  
She recognized J’ack, who dismounted swiftly and looked her over.  
  
“Crafter life seems to have agreed with you after all.”  
  
Sam was taken aback. “Where’s D’nel?”  
  
J’ack sighed and took off his riding helmet, and, in the fashion characteristic of all riders, ruffled his hair. Unfortunately, his was slightly longer than normal and ended up sticking out all over his head.  
  
“D’nel is…fine. It seems the damn Harpers have managed to seduce him away…in more ways than one. I should have seen it coming; he's been talking my ear off about moldy old hides for the past Turn and brown eyes for the past two months.”  
  
Sam frowned. “What do you mean?”  
  
“D’nel, it appears, has fallen in love.”  
  
Sam couldn’t help it, she laughed.  
  
J’ack glared a bit at her, then relaxed, seemingly accepting the humor in the situation. “I guess it is a bit funny.”  
  
“You mean you’re serious?” Sam said in astonishment.  
  
J’ack shook his head. “I am afraid so. Her name is Sharae. She’s two months pregnant, and it seems D’nel wants to marry her.”  
  
Sam was gaping at J’ack, unable to believe what she was hearing. But gradually, she realized it explained why D’nel had been spending so much less time looking through the archives with her.  
  
J’ack shifted impatiently. “Well, don’t just stand there; come on!”  
  
“What?” Sam was understandably confused.  
  
“Oh, right. We didn’t get to that part. The wedding’s now. That’s why I’m here; to make sure you get there—D’nel insisted.” He held out his hand, and Sam took it automatically. He helped her up on Solth’s back, who had been watching the entire discussion with an amused expression, his eyes whirling.  
  
By the time they were in the air, Sam had recovered enough to think two things: one was that she wished she had thought to go back for her leather overcoat, and the second was that she was annoyed with D’nel.  
  
They went Between, and for a few seconds Sam’s mind focused on cold, nothing, terror...  
  
They appeared over Harper Hall, and Sam wasted no time.  
  
“This is just like him!” she shouted. “I’m not even going to bother asking him why he doesn’t tell me these things; he’ll just give me a sheepish look and tell me he was sure he mentioned it and not to be angry, really.”  
  
Behind her, J’ack chuckled.  
  
“Oh, you think this is funny?”  
  
They landed in the courtyard, and J’ack dismounted easily.  
  
“Of course it is. It’s D’nel.” He reached up and swung her down, setting her lightly on her feet next to him. Sam was still angry, but she said, grudgingly,  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
Their eyes met, and for just a moment, J’ack hands lingered at her waist and he regarded her with an expression she couldn’t quite place. Then he quirked an eyebrow, and said, “We could always try to teach him a lesson.”  
  
Sam was unaccountably warm.  
  
“How would we do that?” She was struggling to forget J’ack was still standing very close.  
  
J’ack shrugged. “I have no idea. It’s D’nel; he’s oblivious to anything not related to dragons, history, or females.”  
  
They shared a small smile, and J’ack offered Sam his arm and they entered the hall.  
  
D’nel greeted them almost as soon as they stepped through the door.  
  
“J’ack, Sam. Oh good, I was afraid…” he turned to Sam. “I didn’t think—“ he started, but Sam forestalled him with an upheld hand.  
  
“Oh, D’nel,” she said, “please don’t try to apologize. Just tell me about this bewitching harper girl.”  
  
D’nel blinked, but then smiled happily. “Sharae—she’s amazing. She’s from this little fishing hold, but she plays like an angel. That’s how I met her—I went to pick her up—“  
  
J’ack interrupted the story, having heard it before, “Two months ago,” he said dryly.  
  
“Two months? But, D’nel!”  
  
D’nel had the grace to blush. “I know, I know.” His eyes took on a distracted expression. “She was just so…” he trailed off, at a loss to explain the attraction he’d felt for Sharae immediately.  
  
J’ack shook his head. “You’re just lucky J’cob’s agreed to make you a permanent messenger.”  
  
Daniel sobered, a little. “I know. It’s amazing, Sam. I get to stay here, which is perfect. Not only to I get to continue my research, but Sharae and I can live here—and Moth says he doesn’t mind.”  
  
“Solth says Moth’s turning into a bore; always trying to share his newfound ‘knowledge,’” J’ack supplied. Sam felt a little stab of envy at the two riders’ easy acceptance of their dragons, but pushed it aside when a small apprentice came to tell them it was time.  
  
Sharae was beautiful, soft-spoken, but Sam liked her immediately. As Sam sat through the short ceremony, she wondered, idly, when D’nel and J’ack had become such good friends. They seemed an unlikely pair: J’ack was nothing if not a dragonrider, and D’nel was the most unusual dragonrider Sam had ever heard of.  
  
The entire Harper Hall turned out for the occasion, and after the ceremony they held a dance. Sam found, to her surprise, that she had more offers than she could accept, though she managed to dance once with D’nel, and J’ack somehow claimed her for two.  
  
“You Craft Hold people obviously don’t get out much,” he commented as she stood in a small group of people approximately her age, trying to figure out how to decline invitations for the last dance without being rude. He didn’t even ask, just took her hand and pulled her onto the empty space serving as the dance floor.  
  
“I can’t remember the last time we even tried to have a dance,” she laughed, running through the steps to their current set in her head.  
  
He gave her a look. “Stop thinking so much. I’ll get you where you need to go.”  
  
She was dubious, but found he was right. There wasn’t any reason to count her own steps; after the first time through, she remembered her parts, and he was always in the right spot to guide her, his arm reaching easily around her waist to swing her around him.  
  
They were about halfway through the set when J’ack and D’nel both suddenly stopped. J’ack gave D’nel a look, and D’nel nodded, continuing to dance with Sharae. J’ack steered Sam with him, out the door.  
  
“What are you doing?”  
  
“Hatching,” J’ack said shortly as Solth landed in front of them. It was dark, and the dragon’s eyes were even brighter than before.  
  
Sam pulled away.  
  
J’ack mounted; then looked down at her impatiently. “You’re coming with me.”  
  
She shook her head. “No, I’ll be fine.”  
  
J’ack gave a low laugh. “I was supposed to bring you back, anyway, to see your father.”  
  
She set her mouth in a line. “I don’t want to see him.”  
  
“Too bad.” He reached down, holding out his hand again. Sam shook her head.  
  
“I can’t go back for, for… that,” Sam tried to explain.  
  
J’ack’s eyes softened, and he was silent a moment as he communicated with Solth.  
  
If you do not come, she heard clearly, J’ack is afraid your father will be angry with him.  
  
Sam jumped. J’ack said, “I am not!”  
  
“Solth?” she said, amazed.  
  
J’ack gave her a considering look. “He likes you. Please, Sam.”  
  
Sam had only attended hatchings from the highest seats before, and she was interested. She nodded finally and took his hand. It was even colder than before, but the flight and trip through Between were short, and they were above Central Weyr before she had a chance to change her mind. She felt a lump rise in her throat at the familiar sight of the Bowl.  
  
They landed on the hatching grounds, in time for the second half. Sam watched breathlessly as boy after boy was chosen, the lucky ones collapsing in joy, the others circling around the unbroken eggs.  
  
There was one egg, larger than the rest, and it was the last to hatch. The girls in a semi-circle around it, their hair undone and dressed in white, looked frightened and young to Sam, who couldn’t remember a time when she would have been so scared. Finally, the egg cracked. Sam wanted to look away, felt tears prickling in her eyes at the thought that her own life was now set on a different path. Beside her, she felt rather than saw J’ack looking at her. She clutched the railing in front of her as the hatchling tumbled out of its shell. Confused, it took a wobbly step toward the girls, two of whom stepped out to meet it. But abruptly it turned, headed straight for her.  
  
Her heart leaped, and she ducked under the railing, was on the hot sand before she thought, and then the dragonet found her, and was in her arms, and loved her all the way to the center of her being.  
  
“Jolinath! Jolinath!” she cried, heedless of the other girls’ shock, of the gathered ‘riders’ cries of disbelief, of J’ack’s troubled expression or even of her fathers’ recognition as he finally saw she was there.  
  
The rest of the night passed in a blur of feeling, and Sam vaguely remembered feeding the hatchling and rubbing its skin with oils to keep the hide from cracking. Mostly she remembered feeling a true part of something, and a fierce joy at realizing her dream. She must have fallen asleep at some point, because she woke to loud voices.  
  
“What the hell were you thinking, bringing her here now? You of all people should have known that this was the last place she should be during a hatching!”  
  
That was her father. J’ack answered him, just as loudly.  
  
“How was I supposed to know she’d Impress? It’s not exactly like she’s a prime candidate, J’cob—you were the one who wanted to see her.”  
  
Sam winced. It was true. She would never have thought a girl of twenty-three would Impress. Queens tended to Impress older girls, yes, but they were still usually under twenty.   
  
“For God’s sake, J’ack—I wanted her away from all this. Her mother—“  
  
Sam swallowed a gulp, even as she felt the slight teasing presence of another awareness in her mind. Jolinath was hungry, was probably the reason she’d woken in the first place.  
  
Sam didn’t move. J’ack’s voice filtered around the wall—where was she, anyway?  
  
“J’cob…”  
  
Her father sighed. “She seemed so happy…” He said wearily, “It’s too late now. And with the weyr the way it is, with my injury…”  
  
Sam hadn’t known about any injury. Her ears pricked with worry, and she tried to smooth the insistent voice of her dragon.  
  
This is important.  
  
“J’ack, despite what you like to tell me, you are still a young man, and right now—especially now that Sam Impressed, and the other weyrs are going to want to have a say in the leadership—I need you to step up.”  
  
Sam wished she’d let D’nel tell her more of what was going on in the weyr. She knew that they were without a queen—a thought which made her heart stop briefly as she realized what that meant about her position—but she hadn’t known the other weyrs were trying to pull influence over her father.   
  
Finally, Jolinath’s demands for food could no longer be ignored, and she swung out of bed.  
  
“I’m coming, you beast,” she muttered fondly. “Just as soon as I find out where you are.”  
  
Here! came the pragmatic reply.  
  
The two men outside stopped talking. Sam rounded the corner, decided to feign ignorance of the whole discussion, smiled weakly. “Dad! Surprise!”  
  
J’ack hid a smile; her father, to Sam’s amazement, pulled her into a hug. She noticed he favored his left leg and pulled back. He caught her glance, grimaced.  
  
“That’s…one…of the reasons I wanted to see you. Oh, Sam, you’ve made a lot of trouble for yourself.”  
  
She rolled her eyes. “Actually, I’d be tempted to blame J’ack.”  
  
J’ack looked affronted. J’cob smiled at her. “Yes, well, we’ve already talked about that.”  
  
Sam’s eyes unfocused. “Dad, can we…talk later? That…monster,” her gentle tone belied the word, “is hungry.”  
  
J’ack gestured to his left. “She’s in there, and there’s meat on the way.”  
  
She sighed in relief. “Oh good.”  
  
See? She sent. Soon. Food. Jolinath grumbled, but quieted slightly.  
  
J’cob and J’ack followed her into the other room, and Sam took a jar of oil and began rubbing it into Jolinath’s hide.  
  
“And here I thought we were here to tell her what to do,” J’ack commented as he watched her rub in the oil carefully.  
  
Neither Sam nor J’cob replied to the remark, and J’ack wisely left the topic alone. A small boy arrived with meat from the kitchens, and Jolinath proceeded to devour everything she possibly could. Then fell asleep.  
  
She finished cleaning Jolinath and noticed her own rather disheveled appearance.   
  
J’cob said, “You fell asleep in here last night.”  
  
She nodded. “Sounds about right.”  
  
“If you get cleaned up, we’ll order some breakfast and we can discuss a few things.”  
  
Sam nodded again, gave J’ack a quizzical look and got an innocently bland one in return. As she got ready, she mused about J’ack’s sudden appearance in her life. He certainly seemed to be around a lot, and from what Sam had heard earlier, she assumed he was going to be the de facto leadership of Central Weyr until…well, until Jolinath flew? She blanched at the idea she was suddenly weyrwoman—or would be. On the other hand, she had the feeling things wouldn’t be easy at the Council meetings.  
  
She struggled into a clean tunic and skirt, belted them, and rejoined her father and J’ack in the outer room. Her stomach rumbled at the bread, meats, and pieces of fruit.  
  
J’cob took a moment and looked her over as she sat down and helped herself.  
  
“You’ve gained weight.”  
  
Sam flushed.  
  
J’ack, currently rifling through a stack of hides, didn’t even look up.   
  
J’cob continued, “Relax, Sam. I just mean that you were a little scrawny last time I saw you.”  
  
“It’s true,” J’ack offered, not entirely helpfully. “I practically had to hold you to Solth to keep you from being blown off.”  
  
Sam was almost surprised he remembered, but realized that taking the disgraced daughters of the weyrleader to exile couldn’t be an everyday task.  
  
“Actually,” J’cob said thoughtfully. “This could work to our advantage.”  
  
“This meaning…me?” Sam said, just a hint of an edge to her voice.  
  
“Well, Sam, no offense, but you are a bit older than our other candidates.”  
  
“And smarter,” J’ack put in. J’cob gave him a glancing glare.  
  
“The point is, we knew one of the Council’s main arguments was going to be the relative youth of our lead queen and her rider. We were going to argue that we’d have two years to train whoever Impressed, and that that should be plenty of time. But you’re weyr-bred, so you know what you’re doing already, for the most part, and you’re actually better educated than you would have been otherwise.”  
  
J’ack gave a triumphant smirk, which both Sam and J’cob ignored.  
  
“Why is the Council interfering in the first place?”  
  
“Because we’re too small, especially with Thread coming.” He sighed. “I don’t really see how we can refuse another queen, but damnit if I’m going to take Hath and Ghera.”  
  
J’ack shuddered. Sam wondered what Ghera had done to deserve such censure from her father, who was normally an even-tempered man.  
  
“When is the Council?” Sam asked.  
  
“Today. We received word last night, after the hatching.”  
  
Sam recoiled in shock. “So soon?” She saw how the Council was trying to play it; any of the girls last night would have still been over the moon with delight and half in shock over their unexpected good fortune. Truth be told, she was a little over the moon herself—whenever she thought about Jolinath, she went just a bit silly. It was still the most incredible thing she’d ever experienced.  
  
J’cob nodded gravely. “In fact, they’ll be here soon.”   
  
J’ack got up, stretched. “That’s my cue to go make myself presentable.”  
  
J’cob snorted. “If that were possible, J’ack.” J’ack just waved as he left, and J’cob looked Sam over again. “Sam, I can’t say I’m happy about this; I know I forced you away, but I thought you were happy.”  
  
Sam lowered her eyes. “I was, but this…” she shrugged helplessly. “It’s what I wanted.”  
  
J’cob studied her for a long moment, and eventually inclined his head.  
  
“Very well. Now, in the Council meeting, just follow our lead…”  
  
*_*_*_*_*_*  
  
J’cob left her at the meeting room entrance as he went in to bring the Council to order. The murmur of voices from inside gradually quieted, and she was able to hear her father’s words.  
  
“Thank you for coming today. We have gathered because there has been some concern regarding the leadership of Central Weyr. We hope to allay these concerns as well as any doubt that Central can take care of its allotted area during the next Pass.”  
  
J’ack stepped up beside her, whispered, “I hate speeches.” Sam tried to smile, but instead ended up wincing nervously. He bent a little closer. “You’re thinking again.” And before she could come up with an answer, he walked into the room. He gave a small talk that Sam probably would have found hilarious if she weren’t so nervous, and then it was time for her to come in as the new queen’s rider.  
  
She saw not a few expressions of shock on the Council member’s faces. Some of them obviously knew who she was, and all of them were expecting someone at least three years younger.  
  
She recognized H’mond, weyrleader of Vorash Weyr, and he obviously recognized her. “Your daughter, J’cob? But I thought she was—“ he stopped abruptly, sat back in his chair. “Obviously not.” He gave an apologetic half-tilt of his head to Sam, and she returned it in good humor. H’mond had been one of her favorite visitors when she was young, and the only mistake he’d made thus far was assuming things that would have been true yesterday.  
  
J’cob spoke up. “My daughter, Sam, Impressed Jolinath yesterday.”  
  
Someone Sam didn’t recognize asked, “Just how old is she?”  
  
She felt insulted, but spoke up calmly. “I am twenty-three.”   
  
Murmurs went around the room. Sam watched the members’ reactions—she could see that some of them were upset, while some were merely surprised.  
  
“And you have been in the weyr this whole time?” another asked.  
  
“I have not. I was apprenticed to the Craft Hold five Turns past.”  
  
More murmurs.  
  
“This is highly irregular,” spoke K’sey. “How can a Craft Hold girl be expected to lead a weyr?” He spoke with a sneer, and Sam noted J’ack’s impatient expression and hurried to speak.  
  
“I was raised in the weyr until I was nineteen, and had apprenticed to Kirala, the headwoman here.”  
  
“But you chose to apprentice elsewhere?”  
  
Sam paused. “I found the Craft Hold to be an interesting challenge… and a place to forget about what happened to my mother,” the whole room knew who she meant, and she heard a couple of gasps at her talking about it so openly. She continued, “but I never forgot that what we do here is more important, or that I always wanted to be a part of that.”  
  
Most of the members were silent, but one spoke. “How can we hold that as true, when you, as far as we know, had no intention of returning?”  
  
Sam scrambled to think of an answer to that.  
  
J’ack said, slowly, “I believe Sam’s work might hold the answer to that question.”  
  
Sam looked at him blankly. How would he even know, unless D’nel had told him, but they hadn’t been working on anything new late—“  
  
Her head snapped up.  
  
“Agenothree,” she breathed. She had completely forgotten in the last day’s excitement.  
  
Several pairs of raised eyebrows met her statement. Even J’cob looked confused.  
  
She shook her head. “I was part of a project—more of a side project, actually, in between—“ she halted, realized these people didn’t need details. “We rediscovered agenothree.”  
  
If her appearance had set the room in an uproar, it was nothing compared to the pandemonium this statement created.  
  
“That’s impossible,” scoffed the same man who had questioned her loyalty to the weyr. “It’s a myth.”  
  
“We tested it yesterday. It works,” Sam insisted. “It took us two years to figure it out; I found the original document that led us to the right formula and mechanism for dispersal.”  
  
The man looked taken aback.   
  
H’mond said, “If this is true, I think we can safely put to rest the question of loyalty.”  
  
The other man blustered, “You’re still severely under strength.” Sam saw, with alarm, that the majority of the table was nodding, even as they considered the boon that the agenothree would provide during the Pass.  
  
“Our Weir is full, and Ghera is willing to relocate.” added the man smugly. It was clear he wanted Ghera out of his weyr, and was confident of success.  
  
H’mond was still considering Sam, and spoke up thoughtfully. “Asking Central to take on another full brood so soon is asking a lot. Vorash Hold, too, is full, and we have a young queen, hatched no more than a month ago, Impressed to Freya. Freya is hold born, and feels out of place in the weyr.”  
  
J’cob considered, said, “Very well. We will offer Freya a home in Central Weyr, and J’ack can keep the duties of weyrleader. For now, Freya and Sam can share the responsibilities of weyrwoman.”  
  
There was a general consensus.   
  
“And how shall we decide who is to be the permanent weyrwoman?” asked the same man who offered Ghera.  
  
J’cob hesitated, but Sam had an answer for that. “Whichever queen flies first, according to custom.”  
  
A few Council members looked disgruntled, finding no flaw with her argument. The majority, Sam thought, looked relieved and impressed. J’cob looked slightly disappointed, and J’ack looked almost thoughtful.  
  
H’mond spoke. “Very well. For now, we are in agreement.”  
  
The meeting dismissed, Sam stayed in the room while the members left. H’mond was left at the end.  
  
He said, “Well done, J’cob. And Sam. May Jolinath grow quickly.” Sam nodded, already second-guessing her words. “J’ack,” H’mond added, “I have a few riders extra—not enough for a whole wing, but young, and eager.”  
  
J’ack groaned. “New riders?”  
  
“Just barely trying out their wings, but with the others being trained, it might bring you up to full strength.”  
  
J’ack nodded. “That it might. Okay, we’ll work out the details later.” They clasped each others’ hands, and H’mond left.  
  
He was barely out the door when J’ack turned to Sam. “According to custom?” he sounded amused.  
  
“J’ack, I don’t think this is funny,” J’cob warned.  
  
“Sure it is,” J’ack replied. He gave Sam an appraising look. “You’re going to be just as much trouble as D’nel. I can tell.” He turned to leave, and Sam thought he sounded almost satisfied.  
  
J’cob just growled and stalked off, muttering about headstrong daughters and ridiculous hip injuries that would never have happened if he were younger.  
  
Jolinath chose that moment to wake, demanding more food, and Sam only had time to spare the thought that she was in a lot of trouble before she was dashing through the corridors, making her way back to the pitiful, furious, wonderful, impossible creature who deigned to call Sam her friend.


End file.
